


The Soldier And The Acrobat

by LittleThingsAreInfinitelyMoreImportant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acrobatics, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cheesy, Fluff, M/M, Smut, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:46:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2061618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleThingsAreInfinitelyMoreImportant/pseuds/LittleThingsAreInfinitelyMoreImportant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is an acrobat. John is in Afghanistan. Sherlock performs in Afghanistan and sex ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Soldier And The Acrobat

**Author's Note:**

> One of my hobbies is aerial silks. It's a sky-based acrobatic act involving two lengths of fabric known as 'silks' and using them to climb and perform tricks. I love doing it and I don't know how I got this idea, probably while I was practicing, and yeah...this happened...
> 
> Written for the Smut69 challenge on LiveJournal using the prompt 006-Restraints. I was writing about fabric ropes. Of course somebody had to get tied up!
> 
> I came up with the name 'The Warrior' by using Sherlock's real name, which is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. The name William means warrior. I didn't just pluck it out of thin air :-).
> 
> Please feel free to check out my Tumblr [here](http://comeatonce-ifconvenient.tumblr.com/). I am more than happy to accept any prompts and/or challenges.
> 
> None of these characters belong to me. They are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the playthings of Their Royal Malevolence's Moffat and Gatiss. I am just borrowing them.

In the contradictory way of active war zones, Afghanistan was hypnotisingly beautiful. At least, Captain John Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers thought it was beautiful. 

He loved the flat, arid, tan-coloured wasteland of Helmand, which was a sun trap even in the middle of winter, even if snow was lying thick on the ground. John loved the winter sun. He loved the way the flat land gave way to rolling mountains in the distance, peppered green and grey with the desert scrub that grew there. Hidden away in those mountains he knew were small lakes, tiny oases in the dusty landscape with clear, shining water that the desert dust didn’t seem to touch. He loved to bathe in these pools.

At night, the sky was so clear, and the region so dark and unspoiled by artificial light that the Milky Way was clearly visible above their heads. In the hot summer months, most men chose to sleep outside, gazing up at the river of stars that ran from horizon to horizon, the burning balls of light clustered together so closely that it almost looked like a white ribbon across the sky, until they fell asleep, feeling like they were anywhere but in the middle of a war.

And the culture! Afghanistan was a veritable feast of arts and entertainment. The music was entrancing and the paintings and Gandahara artwork were mesmerising. Every so often, local performers wanting to demonstrate good will, would be allowed inside the fences of Camp Bastion (after passing some very stringent security checks) to perform their shows and display their artwork to the soldiers within. John liked this the most. He’d sat through concerts during which the music played transported him to deep places he hadn't even known he'd possessed within his mind.

It was through one of these shows, that John had met the Warrior.

Obviously, the Warrior wasn’t his real name. No. His real name…was Sherlock Holmes.

~

A tent, almost like a circus top although not as big, had been erected on the open space of the camp that was often used as a makeshift football pitch for the lads that were off duty. On an easel at the currently closed flaps of the tent was a dark red and blue sign, interspersed with flecks of silver glitter that made the poster dance in the fading sunlight. The sign was written in Dari, and one of John’s mates translated as best he could.

“First line says The Warrior…second says a mesmerising performance in the art of Aerial Silks” he said, looking at John.

“Could be worth a watch” shrugged John.

So 9:30pm found him crammed into the tent with what seemed like most of the base. They were stood around a ring that had been marked out in the middle of the space and the whole place was bathed in an icy blue light. Suspended from a bar running across the high ceiling of the tent were two lengths of shiny white fabric, that hung all the way down to the floor, with length to spare. Hushed chatter was ringing through the tent as the men and women waited for the show to start.

John stretched and looked around him, taking in the anticipation in the atmosphere. He was wearing his desert combat trousers, a white vest that displayed his taut stomach, strong back and toned shoulders and arms and his black military combat boots. On his left bicep was an RAMC tattoo. He knew he looked good.

The Camp commander stepped into the centre of the ring and called for quiet. 

“Here’s another show for you lads” he called, looking around the circle.

“Just a few ground rules before the show begins. No eating or drinking, no mobile phones, cameras or recording devices and no heavy petting”

A murmur of laughter ran round the tent. The Captain smirked and continued.

“Seriously though. We don’t pay for these shows, so appreciate it in the right way. Without further ado I give you…The Warrior”

The Captain stepped back into the crowd as a blue spotlight, darker than the dim, icy blue filling the whole tent, settled on the bottom of the dangling sheets. It made the white sheet almost glow with frosty light. The music started, a low, slow, thrumming bass that John could feel in his abdomen and the sheets parted to reveal The Warrior.

He had to be at least six feet tall if he was an inch, and slender with it. His body was taut and finely toned and his skin had an almost mother-of-pearl sheen to it, exacerbated by the silver body glitter painted up his arms and down his bare torso. He wore what looked like lycra leggings in a shining midnight blue with a white sashed waistband and was barefoot. On his face was an eye mask of the same midnight blue with silver flares swirling upwards from the corners of the eyes to his forehead and he had a head of dark black curls with blue streaks running through it.

John’s breath caught in his throat.

A heavenly violin piece joined the low bass as The Warrior raised an arm, wrapped his fists into one of the silks and whirled it around his body with a mesmerising gyrate of his hips before wrapping his other hand in the same silk and lifting his body into the air, turning upside down and arrow straight, toes pointing at the roof. Slowly, the warrior lowered his legs until he was performing a perfect split, still upside down.

The crowd cheered and clapped. John shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly feeling much too hot.

With his outstretched foot, The Warrior hooked the other silk around his ankle and flicked himself upright, still in a perfect split as he hung suspended between the two silks. Deftly, the acrobat closed his legs and wound the silks around his feet, hoisting himself upwards towards the ceiling of the tent. He turned a few somersaults, entwining the silks around his waist before unhooking his feet and letting go with his hands, dropping in a breath-taking spin, turning over and over until he stopped a few feet from the ground.

Another round of applause rippled through the tent as The Warrior climbed back up a few feet. John released a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding as his eyes fixed on the contours of The Warriors thighs and buttock’s, watching the muscles flex and tense. He shifted again, uncomfortably aware of the growing heat in his groin.

The acrobat swung himself out sideways and span in the air to once again wrap the silks around his waist before splitting his legs again and letting himself fall, his legs creating a mesmerising windmill as he fell back to earth. There was a gasp this time from the watching crowd.

The Warrior climbed to the top of the silks again, flipped himself upside down and stretched his arms to the side, supporting himself on his shoulders without even quivering, before dropping headfirst to the floor, righting himself before he hit the ground and landing lithely on his feet, his back arched, one arm extended, the other hand on his hip and one leg cocked slightly in front of the other.

The tent exploded. The gathered soldiers whooped, clapped and cheered as The Warrior inclined his head in a small bow, acknowledging the applause. He climbed back up the silks and struck a pose, one leg dangling and the other extended as the music started again, faster and heavier this time.

John watched with an open mouth as The Warrior upped his game, whirling through his routine of climbs, wraps and drops at a stunning pace. John’s pulse raced and his groin throbbed as the music pounded through him. He couldn’t take his eyes off the acrobat in front of him, contorting himself into all sorts of weird and wonderful poses. His eyes watched the strong muscles, the lithe frame and the taut backside and he felt his cock harden. 

He didn’t remember the music changing time and time again, he didn’t remember the minutes ticking by. All he could focus on was the acrobat. All too soon, he was dropping to the floor in one last spin before springing to the floor and landing in a perfect split with his arm raised. 

The crowd erupted with applause. John came to his senses and began to join in, clapping so hard it made his hands burn. The spotlight switched off and the acrobat disappeared through a curtain hanging at the back of the tent. The crowd began to disperse.

John moved like a man in a dream, one thing on his mind.

He had to meet The Warrior. 

He looked around. His mates had disappeared and he was all but alone as he watched the dark silhouettes of soldiers heading back towards the lights of the main base. It was pitch black by the tent and a cool breeze had picked up, playing across John’s face and dissipating some of the heat that had settled across his cheeks. He took a deep breath, deciding to take a walk before going back into the tent. 

He began to pace around the tent slowly. His body was still tingling, his blood still like fire in his veins. He’d walked halfway around the tent when he was interrupted from his reverie by a deep voice.

“Captain Watson”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Made in a rumbling voice that made a shiver run down John’s spine. He looked to his right, to the shadows of the tent. The tiny orange glow of a lit cigarette flared as the smoker inhaled deeply, the light bouncing off of silver glitter-covered lips. John moved closer.

“You know my name?”

“Your tags” the acrobat replied, indicating the dog tags around John’s neck.

“I see. That means I’m now at a disadvantage” husked John, squinting through the darkness at the lithe form of The Warrior.

“How so?” 

“Well, you know my name. It seems only fair that I should know yours as well”

“You already know it”

“The Warrior can hardly be your real name” chuckled John, meeting the acrobat’s eyes and noticing for the first time that they were a startling colour, mixing between grey and green with flecks of very light brown at the right angle. The eyes appeared to x-ray him through the slits in the mask before becoming decisive. 

“Sherlock. My name is Sherlock” rumbled the acrobat. The name suited him, John thought. It was as unusual as the man himself.

“What you did in there…” John indicated the tent “…was absolutely…”

He couldn’t describe it. Every adjective he could think of didn’t seem to do the performance justice. Sherlock inclined his head in thanks.

“I saw you watching me” another statement. John didn’t say anything.

“I liked you watching me”

“People watch you all the time. Surely I wasn’t any different?” asked John.

“People watch my routines, my acrobatics. They rarely just watch me. You were watching me” whispered Sherlock, stepping forwards and right into John’s personal space.

“Oh…I…” John was speechless and all too aware of Sherlock’s body heat. His skin was like a solar panel, absorbing light and creating heat. John’s mouth went dry.

“I…enjoyed watching you” his voice, when it finally co-operated, was deep and gravelly with desire. Sherlock smirked at him and reached out, wrapping his thin-fingered hand around John’s wrist. The touch was like fire and John jumped like he’d been burned.

“Come with me” whispered Sherlock, backing back into the tent and dragging John with him. 

Sherlock dragged John into the centre of the ring, over the where the silks were still hanging. He dropped John’s wrist and reached for the silks.

“Here…” he said, wrapping one of the silks around John’s wrist. John gripped the soft but strong fabric in his hand.

“Wrap your foot in the silk and use it to lift your weight. You’re an army man, you know how to climb” chuckled Sherlock, grabbing the other silk and shimmying up it. John followed, copying Sherlock’s actions and, in a surprisingly short amount of time, was almost at the top of the silk.

“Now what?” he asked, looking over to the acrobat hanging next to him.

“Ok, unhook your feet and wrap the silk loosely around your right ankle. Not too tight or the drop will break your ankle. It’s just a guideline for this move” instructed Sherlock. John did as he was told and Sherlock nodded approvingly, moving into the same position but with the other leg extended. Feeling ridiculous, John tried to copy his pose, feeling that it probably looked better on Sherlock’s willowy frame than his compact military physique.

“Now, loosen your grip” whispered Sherlock. John did as he was told and began to slide downwards. The sheet slipped through his hand and billowed out behind him as he dropped down at an exhilarating pace. He landed, not all too gracefully, but still managing to stay upright, with a huge grin on his face. He untangled his hand from the silk and turned in a flourish of silk to feel soft lips pressing against his own.

John sighed against the lips, feeling them curve into a smile as he pulled Sherlock to him. He nibbled at Sherlock’s lower lip and parted his own, inviting Sherlock’s tongue to meet his. It was Sherlock’s turn to sigh as John ran his tongue teasingly across the roof of his mouth with gentle flicks. 

John wrapped his arms around the acrobat. What Sherlock had in height was matched by what John had in muscle and he squeezed, drawing Sherlock closer still and pressing his body against Sherlock’s, letting the taller man feel his erection pressing against his hip. John moaned deep in the back of his throat at the relief just that little bit of pressure brought him and he began to thrust slightly against Sherlock’s hip, chasing the friction. 

Sherlock chuckled and placed his hands on John’s chest, pushing him away slightly. John huffed his annoyance but didn’t push back as Sherlock’s eyes drank in his body.

“How long have you been carting that around?” asked Sherlock with a wicked grin, dipping his hand and tracing a finger up the tent in John’s trousers.

“I think it started around the time that you did the splits for the first time” gasped John, thrusting his hips forward slightly into Sherlock’s hand.

“My my, you do realise that was well over an hour ago” whispered Sherlock, placing his hand firmly over the bulge in John’s trousers and massaging lightly. John let his head fall back with a groan.

“I blame you entirely” he husked. Sherlock chuckled and pressed back against John, backing him up towards the silks and reaching behind him. He began to lick and suck at John’s exposed neck as he pushed the soldier’s arms together behind his back. John dumbly registered the feel of the silk twining around first his wrists and then his waist, securing his hands tightly behind his back. The position made him arch his back and thrust his chest out so as to stay comfortable. 

It was at that moment John knew he was buggered. Not many people could tie down a soldier without them even noticing. He heard Sherlock laugh slightly against the skin of his neck and knew that Sherlock knew that the soldier was his entirely.

John gasped Sherlock’s name as he bit down on the sensitive skin of his collarbone, sucking a deep red bruise onto it. He struggled against his bonds helplessly, knowing that the fabric wouldn’t give. It could support a man’s weight for crying out loud!

Sherlock knelt down before him, pushing his vest up and fluttering kisses all over his abdomen, his tongue flicking into John’s navel in a teasing imitation of exactly what Sherlock was going to do to him.

“Jesus Sherlock” gasped John, pushing his hips forward. Sherlock’s hand swept up his thighs, snagging in the fabric of his combat trousers. He opened his eyes and looked down in time to see Sherlock undo the button with deft fingers, then lean forward and drag down the zip with his teeth. John groaned at the sensation of hot breath over his erection. He longed to grab Sherlock’s curls and twist and yank, but with his hands bound by the silk he had to make do with grasping that instead, twisting his fingers into the fabric. 

Laundry was a luxury whilst on a tour of duty and Sherlock’s eyes widened as he saw John had decided to forgo underwear to save on washing.

“Filthy! Walking around in this state” he murmured, tugging John’s trousers down to his knees. John’s laugh quickly turned into a moan as Sherlock licked a hot stripe from his balls all the way up the underside of his cock before dancing his tongue around the head, gathering the pre-come that had formed. John thrust his hips forward desperately, seeking that hot wetness again and groaning as Sherlock wrapped his lips around the head of his cock and began to slide them down to the base, taking John all the way in.

John’s eyes rolled in his head as Sherlock drew back again with hollow cheeks, sucking furiously as he began to bob his head. John’s body sagged as he allowed the silk to take his full weight. 

Sherlock’s tongue danced along the underside of his cock as he slid his lips back and forth, occasionally teasing the slit with a pointed tongue to taste John properly. They were only a few minutes in and John already knew that this was the best blowjob he’d ever received in his life. His toes curled and his hips rocked in time with Sherlock’s head as he hung from the silk, helplessly bound.

Bondage had never crossed John’s mind before, but the sheer eroticism of being completely at Sherlock’s mercy was intoxication. He’d be exploring it more he hoped.

Sherlock dragged his hands down John’s stomach, nails scratching the skin lightly as he slipped his arms round to grab at John’s ass, kneading the hard muscles gently and pulling them apart. He slid off John’s cock with a filthy popping sound and brought his hand to his own mouth, sucking in two fingers and coating them well with saliva. John let his eyes fall closed again and moaned gently. 

Sherlock wrapped his lips back around John’s erection and began to suck lightly as his fingers slid back around John’s body and one slippery digit teased across his entrance. John spread his legs and thrust his hips forward, letting his knees fall to the side to give Sherlock better access.

“Quit teasing” growled John. He felt Sherlock smirk around his cock as he slid one finger into John’s body and swirled his fingertip against John’s prostate. John gasped and began to grind back against Sherlock’s hand.

“This isn’t my first time Sherlock! I’m in the army for fucks sake! Stop treating me like glass!”

He had meant to sound threatening, but it came out as a cross between a growl and a high pitched whine. It worked though, as John felt a second finger slide in to join the first and Sherlock began to thrust them in and out, teasingly brushing John’s prostate on every inward stroke.

“Fuck yes Sherlock!” growled John, as the acrobat gently scissored his fingers, stretching John open. He struggled futilely against the silk binding him, desperate to touch the man knelt in front of him with no joy.

He moaned at the loss of Sherlock’s fingers inside him as the taller man suddenly stood up, his impressive erection straining at the front of the tight lycra leggings. John was amazed it hadn’t ripped through the skin-tight fabric. He watched as Sherlock loosed the white silk sash and peeled the lycra away from his skin and down his legs.

“Jesus” he breathed, looking over the gorgeous body in front of him. Sherlock stepped close and pressed himself back against the soldier, breath ghosting over John’s neck and ear.

“I don’t want to hurt you…”

“Vaseline, left knee pocket”

Sherlock looked at him amused as he bent to extract the tub from John’s trousers. John shrugged as best as his bound arms would let him.

“Stops the boots from rubbing while on a march” he said, by way of explanation. Sherlock pulled the lid off the tub and scooped out a dollop of the Vaseline, slicking up his cock. His eyes fluttered closed at the sensation and he enjoyed teasing both himself and John for a minute.

“Sherlock…” growled John, in a warning tone. Sherlock laughed deep in his chest and stepped forward, dropping the tub to the floor. He grabbed John’s shoulders and spun his round, letting the silk binding him twist around his shoulders as well as he leant the soldier forward slightly. He rubbed his cock down the cleft of John’s ass and let the tip rest teasingly at the entrance, moaning as John’s hips rocked back against him, trying to get Sherlock inside. He gripped John’s hips with either hand and began a slow press forward, letting out a hiss as he sank into the tight heat.

John groaned and rocked back against Sherlock, encouraging him to move. Sherlock gasped and pulled out almost all the way before thrusting back in hard and making John shout out in ecstasy as he set a relentless pace, slamming his hips against John’s ass as the soldier tried desperately to rock back and meet him thrust for thrust, struggling against the silk binding him.

“Jesus Christ…yes John…fucking yes!” 

“Don’t you dare fucking stop Sherlock…just a little more…yes!”

Sherlock wasn’t letting up. If anything he was getting impossibly faster, snapping his hips against John, not so much thrusting as rocking himself back and forth, keeping his hips pressed firmly against John’s ass. The movements created a relentless and torturous slide of Sherlock’s cock against his prostate. He was so close…so fucking close…

“Please Sherlock…please…please touch me…”

Great. He was reduced to begging but right now he didn’t care as Sherlock’s arm crept around his waist and those long fingers circled tightly around his cock, pulling once, twice, three times, four times… and John’s world collapsed.

His orgasm ripped through him as an almost inhuman scream tore from his mouth and he vaguely hoped to god that nobody on the base had heard him as he came hard over Sherlock’s hand and his own stomach. He felt the man behind him shudder and tense and heard him moan John’s name as his own orgasm washed over him.

They stayed locked together for a few moment, John hanging limply from the silk and Sherlock draped over his back as their breathing returned to normal.

“Christ I’ve never had a fuck like that before” breathed John, and he meant it. He’d never experienced such an intense and earth-shattering orgasm in his life. He shifted awkwardly as he realised his arms were aching now from being bound for so long. He felt Sherlock slip out of him and then those long fingers were spinning him back around and untying the silk from his wrists. 

“I move on in the morning” whispered the acrobat, looking wistfully at John.

“I know” John felt a strange lump in his throat. This wasn’t how his one night stands usually ended. Usually they ended with him being kicked out, which is what he preferred. The thought of him never seeing this man again twisted his gut. Sherlock reached out and caressed the smaller man’s cheek gently.

“Don’t worry. We’ll see each other again John Watson. I’ll make sure of it”

~

That had been five years ago. Since then John had performed two more tours of duty and gradually, the image of the acrobat who had stolen his heart faded from his mind until John had almost forgotten him. 

Then he’d taken a bullet to the shoulder.

The resultant infection in the wound had almost killed him, and for nearly a week he drifted between sleep and delirium and when he’d finally regained his wits he’d opened his eyes and registered clearly for the first time the person that hadn’t left his bedside for a week. There sat Sherlock, dressed in a crisp black suit and white shirt with straining buttons, looking just as beautiful as he’d done five years earlier.

“I told you we’d see each other again” he’d whispered, placing his hand on John’s thinned out wrist.

John stretched and grunted, warm and comfortable under the sheets in his new bed in his new flat with another body snuggled against him, still sleeping deeply. He wrapped an arm around the slender shoulders and pushed his hand into the wild curls as Sherlock snuffled and burrowed even closer to John. He didn’t even open his eyes, just let the sounds of London filtering through the open window wake him slowly. He felt Sherlock’s fingers dancing up his chest.

And he smiled.


End file.
